The Adventure of the Dead Detective
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester have encountered some pretty crazy things in their lives, but the ghost of Sherlock Holmes? That's got to be one of the weirdest. Set early S9, after Rock and a Hard Place and rated T for show-level language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1 - The Deal _

Dr John Watson dug through the earth frantically. Near deafening howls filled the air, but there were no screams - not yet. He might still have a chance of saving Sir Henry Baskerville from the fate which had befallen his uncle, Sir Charles.

He had gone to the crossroads, as the legends had said, and he had everything he needed - the yarrow, the cat bone, graveyard dirt and a photo of himself. It was his old army photo, taken back when his shoulder and leg were unscarred and his back was straight with hope and pride. Ignorant bliss indeed. He had changed a great deal since then and he could only hope that the photo would still work. Breathing heavily, he shoved the unearthed dirt back on top of the objects and stood, scanning the darkness around him and striving to ignore the horrific howls that echoed across the moors.

"Dr John Watson," a voice purred and a shadowy figure strode from the darkness. "What a pleasant surprise."

Whatever he had been expecting, it was not the woman who stood smiling pleasantly before him. Her hair was as dark as his Mary's had been fair, and her skin looked more suited to the hotter climates he had experienced in Afghanistan than to the bitter chill of Dartmoor.

"I- I have come on behalf of Sir Henry," he stammered.

"Ah yes, Henry." Her smile widened and her eyes flickered briefly to a shade of red that sent a shudder of terror through him. "Handsome young man. _Excellent _lips..." She licked her own, clearly revelling in the memory. "Of course a lot can change in ten years. What does Sir Henry have to tell me?"

"Call off the hound," Watson said, his voice far braver than how he felt. "Release Henry from his contract."

"An interesting proposition... but hardly an enticing one. Tell me Doctor Watson, what will _I _get in return?"

"I will give you anything," Watson said, boldly. "Name your price."

"Anything?" She echoed, as though she doubted it. "There is only one commodity I am interested in. So my deal is this - your soul for Sir Henry's."

"M- my soul?" Watson swallowed, nervously. He had not been expecting this. "I... I was under the impression you and Sir Henry courted, for a time. Surely you-"

She threw back her head and laughed, a loud, jarring sound when set against the wind whipping around them and the howling that was growing steadily more furious. "Please Dr Watson, if you think there is any sort of good feeling between Sir Henry and me, I can assure you it is purely a _physical _attraction." She took a moment to chuckle at Watson's blush, before continuing, "His family has been making deals with me for years. Started all the way back with good old Hugo Baskerville in the 1700s, but then I'm sure you know all about that."

"That- that was you?"

"Oh yes," she replied. "But back to the point, Dr Watson. Your deal." She surveyed him for a moment, and Watson shifted uncomfortably under her stare, unsure what to say next. "You know there's something I like about you. So I'll do you a favour. Your soul for Sir Henry's, with 10 years until I collect- _and,_" she added, before he had the chance to interrupt, "something else. A resurrection, perhaps?"

Watson froze. "What... what do you mean, exactly?"

"Come now, Doctor," the demon teased, leaning in to softly murmur, "I _know_ what you've lost..."

Watson thought of Mary, and of Holmes. He looked to the demon, cautious. "You could bring them back?"

"Only one," she answered. "There are limits, even to my generosity." Seeing his grave expression as he considered the impossibility of making such a choice, she said, "Think about it. If you take the deal you save Sir Henry, you bring back a loved one you thought lost and you have ten wonderful years together. If you _don't_ then you'll have a lonely life, filled with the knowledge that you _could _have saved them, but didn't. Your choice."

There was a pause, as Watson considered this. The wind was still blowing and the Hound was still bellowing in anger - until suddenly a man's screams joined the cacophony.

"It will have to be Holmes," Watson said abruptly. "The body was never found. There will be fewer questions raised."

"Are you agreeing to my deal?"

"Yes, yes I agree - quickly!" he urged, as the Baronet let out a particularly raw yell. "Do it!"

She seized his cheeks with an unnaturally strong grip, and brought his jaw to her own in a passionate kiss. After a few seconds she withdrew from the embrace, leaving Watson stunned. It took only a few seconds for him to register that both the barking of the Hound and the tortured screams of Sir Henry had faded away.

"See you in ten years, Doctor," the demon said, walking away. "And be sure to tell Sir Henry that Beryl sends her love."

Watson opened his mouth, about to protest at her sudden exit, but she had already disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2 - The Case_

"So er, why are the feds interested in a couple of robbers?" the antique shop owner, Mr Tracey, asked, glancing between Sam and Dean. "I mean long as they're caught right?"

"Right, but er- tell us again the details of just how they _were _caught, Mr Tracey?"

Mr Tracey chuckled. "It was the damndest thing. I hear noises in the middle of the night, so I come downstairs, see? I got my baseball bat ready and my cellphone in case I gotta call the police - well when I get down here I see _that _19th century fishing net-" he pointed to where the item in question was hanging on the wall, "-has fallen on top of these two guys. They'd both dropped their guns so all I had to do was call the police." He smiled, shaking his head to himself. "Divine intervention or something, I guess."

Sam gave a thin smile, trying to ignore Dean, who had pulled a face at Mr Tracey's phrasing.

"Er listen, Mr Tracey... have you felt anything odd in the shop recently? Cold spots, that sort of thing?"

"Cold spots?" Mr Tracey looked between the two "agents", his smile receding as he realised Sam was serious. "Er, well, yeah as a matter of fact there have been. But I mean my boiler just packed up this morning so-"

"This morning?" Dean interrupted swiftly. "You sure about that? It broke _after _the robbers broke in?"

"W- well, sure." Mr Tracey frowned, perhaps able to sense neither of the men believed him. "Look guys I er- I'm all for helping out my country but I gotta say I don't see how cold spots have got anything to do with that?"

"It's just routine questions, have to ask them," Dean reassured. "We'll let you get back to your store."

Mr Tracey smiled gratefully and went to show them out. "Much appreciated fellas."

* * *

"So we're thinking ghost right?" Dean flashed an almost absent minded grin at the waitress who leant over in order to place his burger on the table. "An antique shop - there's gotta be hundreds of objects in there a spirit could be bound to."

"Yeah..." Sam didn't sound convinced as he picked up his fork and dug into his own, far-healthier-than-Dean's, meal. "Sounds... weird though, doesn't it? If it's a ghost why didn't it kill those guys instead of just-?"

"Trussing them up like a pair of Christmas turkeys," Dean finished with a smirk, biting with gusto into his burger and causing a long line of relish to ooze out from the corner of his mouth and onto his chin.

Sam raised a disgusted eyebrow, but made no comment on his brother's table manners, instead continuing, "Exactly. Even Bobby had his moments of vengeful rage and that was _Bobby_, you know? But _this _ghost stops short? Doesn't even hurt them? It's weird man."

"So... what?" Dean mumbled through a mouthful of burger. "If it's not a ghost, what is it?"

"I don't know," Sam shrugged. "But whatever it is, it's got to be powerful - ghost or not. Tying up two guys like that's gotta be complicated stuff and Bobby said it takes either a lot of rage or a lot of concentration for a ghost to move even the smallest thing."

Dean nodding, swallowed and said, "I say let's go there tonight, take the EMF detector and have a poke around for ourselves. If it is a haunted object we'll find it quick and burn it. Job done."

"I don't know if it'll be that easy Dean..."

"Yeah well, I can hope, can't I?" He shoved the last bite of burger into his mouth and caught sight of a pair of women from the corner of his eye, giggling at the relish now smeared all over the lower half of his face. Mistaking this as a sign of interest he winked roguishly, turning back to Sam with a self satisfied expression. "Still got it Sammy."

Sam snorted, deciding not to enlighten his brother.

* * *

Sam yawned, rubbing his eyes and resting his head against the passenger side window. Dean glanced sideways at him with a small frown.

"Look I can do this job alone if you'd rather-

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam cut across him. "It's just... the drive, making me sleepy. That's all."

Dean shrugged and turning his eyes back to the road. "Alright."

There was a brief and uncomfortable silence, which lasted only a few seconds.

"You know it's nothing to be ashamed of, I mean what with the-"

"The Trials, yeah I know," Sam snapped harshly. Then, he sighed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to... to yell I just... I _feel _like... like..."

_Like crap, _Dean finished in his head as Sam trailed off. _Zeke you had better be working your angel ass off in there._

"I mean after last week with Sheriff Mills, what Vesta said about me-"

"Hey listen, forget what she said man," Dean interrupted quickly. "Focus on the job. It'll make you feel better."

"Sure," Sam muttered, and leant his head back against the window. "Whatever you say, Dean."

* * *

"_Hurry up,_" Sam hissed, glancing warily behind him to Mr Tracey's empty drive. "He could be back any minute!"

Frowning as he concentrated on picking the lock on the shop's front door, Dean replied, "Shut your piehole Sam, I'm almost there. And hold that flashlight higher, I can't see a damn thing!"

Sam adjusted his grip and raised the flashlight so its beam shone more fully on the lock and Dean's frantically working hands. "You know he's probably installed all kinds of new security since the last break-in."

"Always one to look on the bright side, huh," Dean muttered under his breath, then released a triumphant, "Gotcha!" as the lock finally clicked. He stood up and pushed the door open, before grinning back at Sam. "What did I tell you?"

Sam rolled his eyes and stepped through. "Come on."

"You're welcome," Dean said sarcastically, following him into the same room they had interviewed Mr Tracey in earlier. "What's got your panties in a twist anyway?"

"I'm just wondering where Mr Tracey is. It's 2AM on a Tuesday - he doesn't seem like the late night party kind of guy to me."

"Seriously? _That's _what you're worried about?" Dean shook his head in disbelief. "At best we're about to take on the most powerful ghost we've ever met and at worst God knows what. But it's Mr friggin _Tracey _that you're freaking out over?"

"I'm not freaking out I just think it's weird," Sam answered. "It seems almost _too_ lucky, you know?"

"Yeah well we can take all the luck we can get." Dean pulled out the EMF detector and switched it on. "Now where should I be pointing this thing?"

Sam glanced around at the shop's various antiques which lined the multitude of shelves that filled the room. "Er... pick a spot and go for it I guess."

Dean nodded, but before he had even approached the first set of shelves, the EMF detector began to whirr violently. He raised his eyebrows and looked questioningly at Sam, who shrugged.

"What do you think-?"

_CRASH! _

Both brothers spun around. The whirring of the EMF detector grew louder as they approached the debris that remained of a now collapsed wooden shelf on the farthest wall and various ornaments and artefacts which had lain on it.

"Mr Tracey's not going to be pleased," Sam said, still tense in case of an attack. Seeing Dean had begun to run the detector over each of the fallen objects in turn, he asked, "You think one of the haunted objects is in there?"

"Don't see why not," Dean shrugged. "EMF is spiking all over the place."

"But I don't get it." Sam frowned. "It seemed like the spirit was the one that made the shelf collapse - why would it lead us to the very thing that we can use to gank it?"

Dean opened his mouth, about to answer, when the noise of the EMF detector grew deafening. Switching it off and putting it back in his pocket, he picked up the magnifying glass it had just been hovering over. "Looks like we got our haunted object." He raised it up so that Sam could see. "You wanna burn it or shall I?"

It was clear that the magnifying glass, though clearly very old, had once been a highly beautiful tool. Its glass was now scratched, but the smooth wooden handle had clearly been polished recently. As Sam leant closer he could make out what looked like writing.

"Hey, hand it over a second," he said to Dean, taking it from him and peering at the words. "Huh. Looks like an inscription."

"What's it say?"

""_To the best and wisest man whom I have ever known,"_" Sam read aloud, then frowned as the words stirred something in his memory. "Does that sound familiar to you?"

"Nope," Dean replied succinctly, pulling out his lighter. "Now we doing this or not?"

"Actually," an unfamiliar voice spoke from nearby, causing the two of them to point their guns wildly in its direction, "I really must request you do _not _do that."

"Oh yeah?" Dean called out to the darkness of the shop. "And who's asking?"

"Ah yes," a man - or as it became clear by the way it juddered into view, the ghost of one - appeared before them. He had keen, grey eyes which swept over them swiftly. "The Winchesters, I believe?"

"How the hell do you know that?" Dean asked suspiciously. He took in the spirit's old fashioned suit. "And like I already said, _who's asking?"_

"My apologies." The ghost raised his hands in a non threatening way. "I mean you no harm. It is simply my business to know what others do not - you see, my name is Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3 - Preliminary Introductions_

"Sherlock Holmes?" Doubtful, Dean kept his shotgun aimed solely at the apparition's chest. "Aren't you supposed to wear a funny hat? Or look like Robert Downey Jr?"

The apparition let out a long suffering sigh. "I shall never forgive Watson letting the Strand hire that Paget fellow to illustrate his stories. And as for Mr Downey Jr," he added as an afterthought, "I found his performance lacked vitality and realism._(1)_"

Sam and Dean shared a glance.

"Did Sherlock Holmes just give us a review on Robert Downey Jr's portrayal of Sherlock Holmes?" Sam asked.

Dean just sighed. "Our lives are weird man."

"You're telling me." Sam raised the magnifying glass up so that the inscription was now visible to the ghost. ""The best and wisest man"... That's _The Final Problem_, right?"

Holmes nodded, and his expression softened. "Indeed."

"Uh... Sam?" Dean had totally lost the thread of the conversation. "You mind filling me in here?"

"_The Final Problem_ is a short story," Sam explained, his tone cautious. His next words were directed at Holmes. "Which I thought was written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"

Dean, if possible, looked even more confused. Holmes huffed an exasperated sigh.

"The stories were published under his name so as to better conceal any of the sensitive information within them. Doyle was Watson's editor." Holmes's disapproval was evident. "And while I confess his stance on spirituality may have been closer to the truth than I had originally thought, I still find it deucedly frustrating that the majority of the population believes I am - _was_ \- nothing more than a figment of his imagination!"

"So... you're saying that you're the real deal?" Dean asked, one hand still aiming his gun steadily in Holmes's direction. "Sherlock Holmes the Victorian private detective?"

"_Consulting _detective," Holmes corrected icily, eying the shotgun with some disdain. "And I assure you there is no need for firearms. If I wanted to, you would both already be dead."

"Oh really?" Dean squeezed the trigger and with the BANG! of a discharged salt round, Holmes's ghostly form dissipated.

"Dean!" Sam reprimanded. "You can't just shoot people because you don't like them."

"People maybe, ghosts are a whole different story," Dean replied. He gestured to the magnifying glass. "Now can you burn that thing already?"

"Please don't," Holmes said, barely an inch away from Dean's ear. He spun around, aiming his shotgun wildly into what he would have sworn was thin air if not for the voice still issuing from it. "I require your assistance. That is, in fact, why I brought you here."

"You brought _us _here?" Disbelief was evident in Dean's tone. "Sorry to burst your bubble _Sherlock_, but we came here under our own steam."

"Perhaps," Holmes admitted, still invisible, "but it was I who caught those two robbers in such a fantastical fashion. I hoped that hunters such as yourselves would arrive - people who could help me."

"Hold on Dean," Sam's hand prevented him from shooting another salt round in Holmes's direction. "Maybe we should hear him out?"

Dean looked incredulously at his brother. " Are you kidding me? We _hunt_ ghosts Sam, we don't help them!"

"So what about Bobby?" Sam asked. "We didn't burn his flask, not til weeks, _months _even after he died!"

"That- that was _different, _okay?" Dean said. "That was _Bobby."_

"Yeah well-" Sam struggled for a convincing argument. "This is _Sherlock Holmes._"

Dean groaned. "Dude please don't tell me you've got a nerd crush on this guy."

Sam opened his mouth, whether to deny this statement Dean never found out. The unmistakable sound of a car motor moved both brothers to the window.

"It's Mr Tracey." Holmes's voice was smug. "I left him a fake note, but the diversion would never have stood up to intense scrutiny."

"He's right," Sam said grimly, squinting at the fast approaching headlights. "We've got to get out of here."

"Ok, then let's burn this thing and go," Dean said, flipping open his lighter and holding out his hand for the magnifying glass. "Hand it over Sam."

But Sam hesitated. "Dean... he must have been waiting what, a _century, _for someone to come and help him?"

"Just under," came Holmes's disembodied verification. "I give you my word that, in all that time, I have never once hurt anyone."

"So he's not vengeful," Sam said. "Let's just take the magnifying glass with us and hear what he has to say."

Dean had a feeling this had less to do with wanting to help Holmes and more to do with asking him questions about life as a ghost since Victorian times. After all, to a research buff like Sam this guy could prove to be a goldmine. Dean sighed. Sometimes his little brother really was too nerdy for his own good.

"Fine," he relented, shoving the lighter back into his pocket. "But any ectoplasm on the seats and he's gone."

* * *

A few miles later, Dean was seriously beginning to regret his leniency.

"You like dogs, Sam?" Holmes's voice spoke from the back. "But you do not keep one due to your brother's aversion?"

"Hey I don't have any "aversion"," Dean disagreed, gripping the wheel of the Impala a tad possessively. "I just don't want them stinking up my baby."

"Your..?"

"He means the car," Sam explained. Stifling a yawn, he continued, "And yeah, I do like them. How did you-?"

"You've clearly had one in here," Holmes said. "The scent still lingers faintly..."

"See?" Dean demanded, slamming his fist on the wheel for emphasis. "_No dogs in the car!_"

"It was a long haired dog," Holmes mused. "An australian shepherd, perhaps? Then of course there are these faint scratch marks."

"_WHAT?" _The car swerved dangerously as Dean jerked around to see the scratches in question. "Dammit Sam!"

"Come now, it would have been rather unforgivable for Sam to have left the dog, given he was the one who hit it," Holmes said. "That is, I take it, what happened?"

"Er... yeah," Sam admitted. He looked apologetically to Dean who was fuming that the Impala had been altered without his knowing it. "Sorry. There wasn't really time to put a blanket down or anything."

"It _was_ many months ago," Holmes pointed out in Sam's defence and Dean gritted his teeth against an angry retort. He was starting to realise he'd take a pet dog in the car over a pet ghost any day. "And the half eaten burger rolling around beneath the driver's seat seems a far more irksome transgression."

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust, but to Dean's relief he didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't want to push his luck after the scratched seat revelation.

"Tell me, when did your father pass away?" Holmes asked, when it seemed neither Dean nor Sam were going to say anything. "Your mother died in your youth, clearly, but-"

Dean sighed. It was going to be a long trip.

* * *

_(1) Holmes's opinions do not necessarily reflect my own._

**A/N: **_This is very possibly the quickest I have ever updated a chapter without having it pre-written beforehand. __Any good?_


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4 - Mr Holmes States His Case i_

They had driven all night - or, more accurately, _Dean _had driven all night whilst Sam dozed on and off and Holmes had made the occasional deduction - but, at last, they reached a hotel far enough from Mr Tracey's house to avoid any kind of suspicion. Dean parked the car, glancing over at Sam who continued to snore quietly.

"Is there a reason your brother is so exhausted?" Holmes's voice drifted from the backseat. "A recent illness perhaps?"

"None of your business," Dean growled and nudged Sam awake a little regretfully; every second Sam rested was a second closer to getting Ezekiel out. "We're here Sammy."

Sam's eyes opened unwillingly and he yawned. "Already?"

"Yep, fraid so," Dean responded with a false cheeriness. "You grab the crap and I'll go book us a room."

A few feet from the motel entrance Dean noticed their ghostly acquaintance walking beside him, in plan view.

"What are you doing?"

"Coming to book the room with you, of course," Holmes answered Dean smoothly. "It has been quite some time since I have partaken in any sort of routine interaction and-"

"-and you're not going to any time soon," Dean finished the sentence brusquely. At Holmes's affronted look, he continued, "What if you can't keep concentrating hard enough and you disappear in front of the receptionist?"

Holmes's reply dripped with scorn, "My mental focus is unparalleled, I assure you. Emerging from the Veil is no challenge to me."

Dean narrowed his eyes - God was this guy was a know it all.

"Is there anything else?"

"Two things." No way was Dean letting Holmes get his own way. "One, your clothes. You don't think some creepy victorian suit is going to raise a few questions?"

"That hardly matters-"

"And _two,_" Dean pressed on, over Holmes's dismissal, "I am _not _going to pay for a bigger room for the sake of a ghost who won't even use the extra bed."

"Ah." Holmes deflated a little. "Yes well that is er... logical I suppose. I shall see you upstairs then."

He disappeared and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "What a tool."

"I'm still here!"

Dean smirked and kept walking.

* * *

Sam dumped his and Dean's two duffels onto the motel bed with a huff. No way did it used to be that hard to lug their stuff upstairs.

"Might I -"

"Gah!" Sam leapt about a foot in the air and reached instinctively for his gun. Then he realised it was Holmes who had spoken.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"It um- it's okay," Sam stammered, heart rate returning to normal. "Not your fault. I'm just a little off my game."

"I was going to ask," Holmes continued apologetically, "Your exhaustion is quite evident."

"Gee thanks." Sam said sarcastically. He ran a hand through his hair, still a little on edge from the shock Holmes had given him. "There were these Trials. Challenges I had to undertake. I-"

The motel room door opened, and Dean came in, shaking his head. "We gotta up our fake name game Sammy."

Sam cast Holmes a meaningful look - _later _\- saying, "What? You mean he _didn't _believe you were George Harrison?"

"It can't be that rare a name!" Dean glanced over to Holmes. "Guess you wouldn't know who George Harrison is, huh?"

"George Harrison _was_ a member of the popular band _The Beatles, _and died in 2001."

Dean had the good grace to look surprised. "How'd you know that?"

"I am a consulting detective," Holmes responded icily, "I have kept up to date over the years."

Dean frowned and opened his mouth, probably to start another argument.

"So you said you needed our help?" Sam intervened before anything could start spiralling out of control. "Care to explain why?"

"Very well." Holmes waited until Sam and Dean were settled down in their respective seats - Sam on the edge of a motel bed and Dean in the desk chair. "As you can see I am not a vengeful spirit. I died simply of a heart issue, substance abuse most likely a cause-"

"Wait, wait, wait," Dean interrupted, grinning. "You were a druggie?"

"Dean!"

Holmes sniffed. "I occasionally indulged in a 7% solution of cocaine, yes. But back to the point, my death was not a violent one."

"So why stay?"

Holmes paused a moment, gathering his thoughts - it struck Sam that in one hundred years, perhaps this was the first proper conversation the detective had had.

"It is... a long story," said Holmes, eventually. "It begins, I suppose, with my death - er, my _first _death that is," he amended hastily.

Dean looked to Sam for assistance.

"In the books, Sherlock Holmes dies at Reichenbach Falls, fighting his nemesis Professor Moriarty," Sam explained. "Only in _The Empty House _it turns out he never died at all - it was all faked so he could hunt down the rest of Moriarty's employees."

"Sounds a little far-fetched."

Holmes gave a tremulous smile. "Oh believe me, the true story is far more unbelievable." He took a deep breath (which was all kinds of weird, since he was already dead). "I did die at Reichenbach that day. But Doctor John Watson brought me back."

There was a momentary pause in the wake of this statement. Then-

"Watson... He's the idiot sidekick right?"

"He was nothing of the sort!" Holmes snapped at Dean, visibly bristling. "I do not care to surround myself with idiots... something that makes this entire process a lot harder, by the way."

"Hey!" Dean rose to his feet. "What do you-"

"Dean, stop!" Sam barked at his brother, who dropped back down with a glower. "So you died, but you came back?"

"Yes." Holmes's eyes grew distant as he remembered all those years ago. "At first I didn't realise what had happened... The last thing I had known, I had been plummeting to my death.

But then I woke up."


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5 - Mr Holmes States His Case ii_

_1892:_

Walti and his father were out fishing when they saw the body.

"Pap!" he cried, and pointed to the thing drifting downstream. It was soaking and misshapen and a little broken - but it was human. "Pap look!"

His father jumped in to rescue the person - a man, as it turned out. Walti watched him drag the body to the river bank, fascinated even though he knew he shouldn't be.

* * *

Walti's mother shook her head sadly when she heard what had happened over dinner that evening.

"Was there anything on him?" she asked her husband. "With his name on?"

Walti's father shook his head. "Nothing. I think he's been dead longer than he looks - must have gotten caught in the floes over winter... been dead a year or so, I reckon."

"What a shame," said Walti's mother, and began went to clear away the dishes.

Walti's mother and father decided between themselves that they would bury the body the next day. So Walti snuck out to the garden barn to take another look. He knew his mother would be horrified if she knew he was here. But he couldn't help himself.

His father was right about how the dead man looked. His face was still intact, not at all decomposed. Walti stared hard and wondered what the man had been, and what had led him to his death. He didn't have to wonder long.

With a gasp, the dead man shot upright, and Walti screamed.

* * *

"You didn't think it was weird?" Dean asked. "Waking up after so long with no memory of what happened? I mean you fell down a frigging cliff-"

"A waterfall."

"Same difference! What gives?"

Holmes smiled thinly. "It has always been my maxim to rule out the impossible before considering solutions to a problem and, at the time, the thought of being brought back to life was an impossible one. So I pursued different ideas."

"Such as..?" Sam probed.

"Such as memory loss... a head injury affecting my remembrance of time, perhaps." Holmes paused a moment and added, quieter, "And I did begin to question my own sanity too.

"However, life moved on. With the help of the Swiss family who had found me I contacted my brother, Mycroft, and made arrangements to return to London. I fabricated a story about needing to pursue Moriarty's remaining forces, built it up to such a degree of detail that I began even to believe it myself.

"But years later I was forced to remember what had really happened."

* * *

_1902:_

Holmes watched Bradstreet leave from the window.

"That man simply never learns," he murmured, letting the curtain fall back over the window and turning to his flatmate. Watson was scribbling something down, no doubt finishing his notes on their latest case. "It was simplicity itself to examine the rope used!"

Watson smiled, but there was little feeling in it. "It always seems to be "simplicity itself" when the answer is already known, Holmes."

"But Watson, the answer is _not _already known," Holmes rejoined, curling into his armchair and seizing his violin. "It was, after all, your well-spotted detail of the knot used that cracked the case."

As ever, Watson just shook his head. "No, no my part was minimal." He paused in his scribbling, stiffened in his seat. Then he murmured, softly, "We have had a good go of it, haven't we Holmes?"

The sudden question and the seeming vulnerability in it threw Holmes off guard for a moment.

"Excuse me?"

Watson swallowed, and smiled nervously. "These past few years... since your return I mean. It has all been rather lovely, hasn't it?"

He had finished writing, and where his left arm was lain on the desk, Holmes could see his fist was clenched. He wondered if perhaps Watson's old wound was bothering him,

"I suppose so," Holmes said. "But what has brought this on?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing!" Watson exclaimed, a wide, reassuring smile firmly affixed. "Nothing at all. Just a thought."

Holmes did not quite believe it, and when Watson announced he would spend the night at his club, he wondered if perhaps he had misspoken in some way.

* * *

"Where is Doctor Watson today then Mr Holmes?"

Lestrade stifled a smile at the eager attitude of Stanley Hopkins - the young man practically worshipped at Holmes's feet.

"Working I expect," Holmes replied dismissively. "He spent last night at his club."

"An argument?" Lestrade joked - or perhaps not, given the dour look that came upon Holmes's face at his comment. Fortunately they had arrived at the crime scene.

"Heavens," Holmes murmured. Even he could not help but be affected by the carnage before him - in the middle of the street a mutilated body, so badly mauled that pieces of flesh were scattered as far as several metres from the torso. "Poor soul... "

"Indeed," Lestrade said grimly, trying not to look too long at the corpse's mangled face. "Lord knows what's done this..."

"A large creature," Hopkins supplied. "Perhaps a bear?"

"Not in this part of the world," Holmes murmured. "Such a thing would be almost unheard of in the centre of London. The wounds remind me of some men I've seen in your morgue, savaged by dogs... but on a far, _far _larger scale..."

"Before we get onto that, perhaps you might help us identify the body?" Lestrade enquired hopefully. "And then we can discuss bears and wolves in the middle of London to our heart's' content."

Holmes grimaced, and looked disdainfully around at the carnage of dismembered body parts.

"Quite the jigsaw, eh?" Hopkins jibed good-naturedly. "Your cup of tea, Mr Holmes."

Holmes grunted in response, crouching beside the arm that was still attached to the torso. Beneath the blood and gore, a thin gold band was visible.

"This was his wedding ring," Holmes mused aloud. "But it is on his right hand..."

"A widower?" Hopkins chirped. "So an older man?"

"It is likely, though by no means definite," Holmes said distractedly. "There is something about this ring..."

"What is it?" Lestrade's voice was cautious. He had expected Holmes to be leaping from body part to body part, eager to have such an exercise for his mental faculties. Instead he had turned suddenly pale. "What's wrong?"

Holmes staggered upright, turned to Hopkins with a wild look in his eyes and seized him by the shoulders. "Did you find anything else with the body?"

"Er I- I think so, yes," Hopkins stammered, as taken aback as Lestrade by Holmes's sudden shift in mood. "A cane, but it was in bits, I didn't think it worth-"

"Show it to me!"

Hopkins hurried away to fetch the broken item and Holmes wrung his hands together, pointedly not looking at the bloody corpse. Lestrade had never seen him so affected in all their long acquaintance.

"Holmes," he enquired gently. "Calm yourself, whatever you fear cannot be so bad as all that."

Holmes ignored him and soon Hopkins had returned with a burlap sack. Inside were the splintered remains of a wooden cane.

"Here you are Mr Holmes." Hopkins offered him a glimpse into the bag nervously. "Though I don't know what you could hope to deduce from that mess."

Holmes was frozen, staring into the sack. He let out a soft moan, then tottered to the side of the road and began to retch.

"Mr Holmes!" Hopkins looked aghast to Lestrade. "Shall I call a doctor? Doctor Watson perhaps?"

Holmes shook his head frantically, still moaning. Lestrade hurried to his side.

"Mr Holmes," he began, an idea forming in his mind. He prayed to God it was wrong. "It's someone you know, isn't it?"

Slowly, Holmes nodded. Hopkins let out a horrified gasp.

"It- it's..." Holmes straightened, trying and failing to get a hold on himself. "It's Watson."


End file.
